A December Morning in Mali

The nights deep silence never broke with the morning.
The village gathered and sat.
The man under the sheet was not at all old,
his wife kneeling on the crumbling floor.
Incense fills the room, a shawl covers her empty gaze.
Dont cry, they tell me.

It was that same night another struggled
to release a new life into the world.
Its called labor
where life should begin, here it has ended for both.
Dont cry, they tell me. Crying is bad.

Seven months old shes brought to me
is it too late for you?
Your fragile body folding up as I held it.
Your only chance is to leave this village.
Take her now, theres no time to loose.

A December morning in Mali
the sun doesnt come out all the way.

I want to cry.
I do.
And they laugh at me for it.

Is it funny?
And they laugh harder.
I know its not funny.
Youve just cried out your cry.